Thirty-Six Loops

The first time it happened, Mara laughed.

It was a small, harmless glitch in the morning—one of those odd overlaps you blame on being half-awake. She reached into the cupboard for a mug and her hand closed around the chipped white one with the faded blue star. She didn’t even look. She knew it was there the way you know your own name.

Then her phone buzzed on the counter.

MOM : Did you sleep?

Mara blinked. She was already holding the mug. Steam emerged. She could smell the coffee—dark and burnt, the way the office machine always brewed it even when she made it at home.

Her phone buzzed again, and before she could look, she felt the vibration in her palm as if the device had teleported there.

MOM: Did you sleep?

Mara stared at the time stamp. 7:12 a.m. Both messages. Identical. She scrolled upward. There was no conversation before it, no yesterday’s check-in, no silly sticker, nothing. Just the same message twice, like the universe had stuttered. She frowned, typed back Barely. You? and hit send. The mug felt too warm against her fingers. She set it down and shook out her hand as if she’d touched something that wasn’t meant to be there.

Her phone showed her reply. 7:12 a.m. And then her screen refreshed, and her reply slid up as if it had been sent a moment earlier. There were two replies now.

Barely. You? Barely. You?

She swallowed. She attempted to delete it, but holding the bubble showed no options. It stayed put, indifferent. She stared until her eyes burned, then looked away, grabbed her coffee, and headed to work.

Outside, winter had faded into Montreal slush, with grey snow stacked along the curb. People walked with lowered heads, cautious and routine. Mara followed, crossing the same frozen puddle she'd crossed countless times.

Midway along the block, a man wearing a red scarf let out a harsh, wet cough—the kind that instinctively makes people recoil. Mara tensed up, thinking, That cough sounds familiar.

Then she thought, because her brain was trying to smooth the ripple: déjà vu.

When she got to the corner, the traffic light shifted. A black SUV moved ahead, coming to a halt right before the crosswalk.

The window lowered slightly. A woman said, “Sorry—go ahead.”

Mara started to step. And then she froze, because she knew exactly what would happen next.

Not a guess. Not a hunch. A certainty so clean it felt like memory.

A cyclist sped past on her right, the SUV jerked forward, brakes screeched, a scream echoed, and her coffee slipped from her hands.

The cyclist shot through the slush like a dart.

The SUV lurched.

Mara stepped back so hard she nearly fell into the man with the red scarf.

The cyclist skidded, cursed, and missed the SUV’s bumper by inches. The driver slammed on the brakes. A pedestrian yelped.

Mara’s coffee spilled in a dark arc across the snow, steaming like blood.

Life continued; people looked on, a laugh echoed. The cyclist yelled, and the driver responded in kind.

Mara’s heart thudded as if it had been punched. She looked at the man with the red scarf, expecting him to glare at her for nearly knocking him over.

He was watching her instead—quiet, intent, as though she’d done something that confirmed a theory.

- You okay?, he asked.

- Yeah. Just… reflex.

- Good reflex.

- It was nothing.

The man’s eyes flicked to the spilled coffee.

- Nothing can still be a warning.

-Do I know you?”

“No,” he said, and then he hesitated, and Mara caught the smallest shift in his posture—the way his shoulders lifted and settled like he was choosing which lie to live with. “Not yet.”

He turned away before she could question him, his red scarf fluttering behind him like a banner.

Mara watched him disappear into the crowd, feeling left behind. “No,” he said, pausing as if deciding how to answer, then added, “Not yet.”

At the office, the morning tried to pretend it was normal.

Mara rode the elevator, which smelled of boots and mint gum. The receptionist greeted her and asked if she'd read the email about the new printer codes. Mara declined, despite envisioning the forthcoming email with its prominent subject line, a reminder regarding paper jams, and a signature marked by emphasis.

At her desk, she opened her laptop. The email was waiting. Timestamp: 7:12 a.m. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad. She didn’t click. She sat very still, listening to the office in its ordinary hum. Phones. Distant laughter. A chair rolling over carpet. Someone tearing open a sugar packet.

Mara took a slow breath and clicked the email. The subject line wasn’t about printer codes.

It said: THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN.

Her mouth went dry.

She clicked again, hard, like the email could be punished into changing. The subject remained.

The sender was blank. Not unknown, not an address she didn’t recognize—literally blank. An empty line where a name should be, as if the message had been mailed by absence itself.

The body contained only one sentence.

That didn’t happen.

Mara stared until the words blurred into shapes. Her throat tightened, and she checked to see if anyone was watching her screen.

No one looked up. Everyone was caught in their own loops.

She minimized the email and opened her calendar. Meetings. Deadlines. A birthday reminder for a colleague she barely knew. Normal.

Then her calendar flickered.

For a fraction of a second, all the meeting titles changed to the same phrase:

That didn’t happen.

Mara slammed her laptop shut so fast her coffee mug jumped.

“Hey,” her coworker Sal said from the next desk, eyebrows raised. “You good?”

Mara managed a strained smile. "Yeah. Just startled—I thought I deleted something."

Sal shrugged. “Monday, right?”

It was Wednesday.

Mara looked at Sal. “What day is it?”

Sal blinked with amusement. "Monday."

Mara's stomach tightened, and she laughed awkwardly. "Yeah. Monday."

Sal returned to his screen, dismissing the exchange.

Mara opened her laptop again, slow this time.

The email was gone.

Her calendar was normal. Her phone displayed a single message from her mother; instead of asking, Did you sleep?, the message read, Please call me when you are able.

Mara rubbed her temples, grounding herself with simple facts: her name, age, address, coffee’s taste, and the smell of wet wool. Her body felt real. The chair under her felt real. The fluorescent lights hummed in that particular way that always made her eyes ache.

But the memory of the subject line—THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN—sat in her like a stone.

At lunchtime, she couldn’t eat.

She stepped outside, the cold waking her up. The city followed its routines: cars waited at lights, people queued at a food truck, and a dog shook slush from its fur.

Mara wandered aimlessly until she noticed she was approaching the intersection where she'd dropped her coffee.

The corner looked the same—dirty snow, blinking crosswalk sign, the faint smell of exhaust.

Leaning casually against a lamppost, the man wearing a red scarf appeared as though he had been waiting for her all along.

Mara stopped short. “You.”

He smiled, not surprised. “Me.”

“Who are you?”

He straightened. Up close, he appeared older—likely in his early forties—with tired eyes. "My name is Luc."

Mara almost laughed. “Luc? That’s it?”

“That’s all you’ll get for now,” he said gently.

Mara’s hands balled in her pockets. “Okay, Luc. What is happening to me?”

Luc scanned the intersection. “How many repeats?”

Mara’s skin prickled. “Repeats?”

Luc inquired, "How often have you sensed the loop? How frequently have you caught the stutter?"

Mara paused. "This morning—the texts, the cyclist."

Luc nodded. “And the email.”

Mara stiffened. “You know about the email.”

Luc didn’t deny it. “You saw it.”

“It disappeared.”

"It will," he said. "They clean up after themselves—less evidence, less panic."

Mara narrowed her eyes, uncertain if she’d stumbled into another scheme. “Who do you mean by ‘they’?”

Luc released a controlled breath through his nose. "Refer to it as an algorithm, or a program, if you prefer. It is essentially a component of reality that resists close observation."

Mara’s laugh came out brittle. “That sounds insane.”

Luc shrugged. “Insane is a word we use to keep ourselves from looking at the seams.”

Mara’s pulse beat in her ears. “Why me?”

Luc's face relaxed. "You're not special or chosen—just sensitive and acutely aware."

“That’s not an answer.”

"It's the only one that counts," Luc said. "People usually accept what's given to them, but you remember the duplicate."

Mara’s mouth tightened. “I remember the cyclist because I saw it happen.”

Luc shook his head. “You remember it because you saw it happen before it happened.”

Mara’s stomach flipped.

Luc observed her intently. "You have experienced this previously, correct? Subtle occurrences—a line of dialogue anticipated before it was spoken, recognition of a melody despite no prior exposure, or perceiving a familiar visage among strangers."

Mara remembered the red scarf, the persistent cough, and her body's instinctive response before she was even aware.

- Yes, sometimes.

Luc nodded, like a doctor confirming a symptom. “It’s getting worse.”

- Is it dangerous?

Luc’s jaw tightened. “It can be.”

Mara’s fingers went numb in her gloves. “Then fix it.”

Luc looked at her for a long beat. “I can’t fix it.”

- What can you do?

- I can teach you how to survive it.

Mara swallowed. “Why would you do that?”

Luc’s eyes showed guilt. “Because I didn’t the first time.”

Mara stared. “The first time… what?”

Luc opened his mouth, then shut it, as if speech was difficult. He looked at the traffic light, which shifted from red to green.

Mara felt her stomach drop. She knew what would happen next.

A woman in yellow, distracted by her phone, would step off the curb. A van would speed around the corner, its tires screeching. Someone would-

- Don’t move,” Luc said quietly, as if he’d read the same script.

Mara’s legs locked.

The woman in the yellow coat stepped forward.

The van turned.

Luc grabbed Mara’s elbow—not hard, just a steadying grip—and pulled her back one step.

The van’s tires screamed. The woman looked up, startled, and stumbled backward instead of forward. The van missed her by a hand’s width and lurched to a stop.

The driver shouted from the window. The woman in yellow held her phone tightly, trembling.

Mara’s throat burned. She looked at Luc with something like horror. “We… we knew.”

Luc released her elbow. “Yes.”

Mara’s voice trembled. “So why is it happening? Why do we get the warning?”

Luc’s gaze sharpened. “Because someone—or something—is testing the boundaries.”

Mara shook her head. “That makes no sense.”

Luc tilted his head. “Do you remember the email?”

Mara flinched. “Yes.”

Luc’s voice lowered. “That didn’t happen.”

Mara’s hands tightened into fists. “It did.”

Luc nodded. “You and I can say it did. But the system doesn’t like contradictions.”

- The system, Mara repeated, tasting the word like a bad joke.

-Reality is just a shared story. Noticing changes disrupts that agreement."

- So, it removes them, she stated.

- It tries, Luc said. But your mind holds onto the draft.

Mara glanced toward the crosswalk signal as its countdown flashed methodically. "What are the consequences if I choose not to allow it to erase?" she inquired.

Luc’s answer was too fast.

- You become a problem.

Mara’s mouth went cold.

- And what happens to problems?

Luc paused, uncertain.

Mara fixed him with a sharp look. “Luc.”

He gulped before answering. “They’re rewritten.”

Mara felt the weight of that word press into her ribs. “Rewritten how?”

Luc glanced at her, fear flickering in his weary eyes. "They make you doubt yourself, question your memories, and eventually conform like everyone else."

Mara’s chest tightened. “That’s gaslighting.”

Luc’s smile was slight. “Yes, but it’s not a person doing it.”

Mara coughed instead of laughing. “So I’m supposed to fight reality?”

Luc shook his head.

-No—anchor yourself.

- Anchor how?”

Luc took a small metal object from his coat and handed it to Mara. A key. It was an old brass key, smoothed by use—just the sort you’d expect for a forgotten drawer in a creaky house.

Mara eyed it. "What's this?"

Luc closed her hand. "Proof…Proof of what ?"

"You were here," he said. "This happened."

Mara frowned. "Why is a key considered proof?"

Luc spoke gently. “Because something like that has no place in your world.”

- What do you mean?

- I’ve carried it through thirty-six loops.

- Thirty-six days?

- No. Not days.

- What are you saying?

- This week has been repeating.

- No.

Luc didn’t smile.

- You didn’t notice because most of the resets are clean. You keep your general memories—your childhood, your job, the shape of your life. But the details of the loop get overwritten. The system resets the week like wiping a whiteboard. It leaves the outlines and erases the writing.

Mara’s legs felt weak. She leaned against the lamppost without realizing.

- That’s not possible.

Luc’s expression was gentle, like he’d said those words himself once.

- It is, if time isn’t a line. It’s a file.

Mara’s fingers tightened on the key until it hurt.

- If it’s repeating, why are we… different? Why do I remember anything?

- Some people are more porous. Memories leak through the edits. You’re starting to leak.

- How many times have I lived this week?

- I don’t know. More than you’d like.

Mara’s vision blurred. The street seemed suddenly too bright, too loud.

- So everything I do—every conversation, every choice—it just gets erased?

- Not everything. Some things stick. Some things… accumulate.

- Like what?

- Like the key.

Mara stared at the brass teeth, the small imperfections. It felt solid. Real. Cold.

- And you,” she whispered. “You stick?

- I’m stubborn. Or broken. Hard to tell.

- Why haven’t you stopped it?

- Because the first time I tried, the system noticed.

- What did it do?

Luc looked up, and the streetlight reflected in his eyes like two pale coins.

- It took someone from me.

- Who?

- My sister.

A silence stretched between them, filled with traffic and distant voices.

Mara recognized the red scarf as Luc's marker—a thread he used to keep from vanishing.

- I’m sorry.

- In one version, you told me that. In another, you didn’t. In another, you weren’t here.”

- So what do we do?

- We make something happen that the system can’t easily erase.

- Like what?

- A choice that splits the script.

- A paradox.

- Yes. A contradiction big enough that it can’t be smoothed over without tearing the whole week apart.

Mara’s mind raced, grasping for something stable in the flood.

- And if we tear it?

- Then maybe the loop ends.

- And maybe...

Luc finished for her, quiet.

- Maybe we get rewritten.

Mara glanced at the key, then at the city and its people moving through the slush, as the crosswalk timer ticked down.

She thought of the email. That didn’t happen.

She felt something hard and clear rise in her chest, like a bone turning into a blade.

- It did.

- Say it again.

- It did.

- Good. That’s your anchor.

- Okay. What’s the paradox?

Luc’s mouth curved, the first real hint of a smile.

- We go somewhere you have no reason to go. We do something you have no reason to do. We make the story change direction.

- Where?

Luc glanced at the key in her hand.

- Do you see the markings?

Mara leaned in. Faint but readable letters were scratched on the brass shaft.

B-12

- Basement twelve?

- In your building.

- There is no basement twelve.

- Exactly.

Mara looked up at the office tower looming down the street, all glass and steel and ordinary corporate life.

Her palms were sweating inside her gloves. Her heart felt like it was trying to climb out of her ribs.

- This is crazy, she whispered.

- It’s only crazy if you’re committed to the version of the world that’s been handed to you.

Mara stared at the tower, at the people flowing in and out of its doors like blood through a heart.

Then she looked at Luc.

- If we do this,” she said, voice firm despite the tremor underneath, and it works… what happens to everyone else?

- Maybe they wake up. Maybe they don’t. Maybe the week continues for them like nothing happened.

- And if it doesn’t work?

- Then the system will try to convince you this conversation never happened.

- It already tried.

- It will try again.

Mara slipped the key into her pocket and felt its weight settle against her thigh—a small, stubborn fact.

She took a breath that tasted like exhaust and winter.

Then she said the words that felt like stepping off a cliff in a dream: “Let’s go make something happen.”

Luc’s red scarf fluttered as he turned toward the building. “Good,” he said.

And as they walked, Mara felt the world hold its breath—like a page about to be torn out, like a sentence about to be edited.

With her fingers wrapped around the key inside her coat pocket, she murmured softly—not to Luc, but inwardly—to the invisible force urging her to let go of her memories:

- That didn’t happen.

Then she smiled, small and fierce.

- It will.